


a myth to many

by nanasekei



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (sort of), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Character Study, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 14:32:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18390323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanasekei/pseuds/nanasekei
Summary: “What I’m about to ask you has no relation to our alliance,” Rogers continues, his voice a lot steadier now. “I come here only in behalf of myself, and what I’m about to ask, I ask as a man, not as a soldier.”Howard feels as if he can see the anticipation growing in the room, almost as a cloud forming over them. The guards don’t bother hiding the shock in their expressions, and even Jarvis can’t fully disguise the curiosity, his eyebrows quirked.Rogers takes one short breath before locking his eyes with Howard’s. His blue gaze is almost peaceful in its resoluteness, as if there’s an element of inevitability in what he’s about to say.“I’m here to ask for your son’s hand.”





	a myth to many

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sabrecmc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrecmc/gifts).



> A few notes:
> 
> -I've never seen Agent Carter, so this is written based only on what we know of Howard from the movies, as well as my personal view of this specific version of him.
> 
> -Howard's pov is very unkind to Tony at times, so please be aware of that if it's something upsetting to you.
> 
> -Thanks to Sadie for betaing this, and to people from the stony discord for finding me a title <3
> 
> -This is for the lovely sabrecmc, who said she wanted an outsider POV and was willing to accept my ideas. Thank you for your donation and your patience, I hope you enjoy it!

“…with profuse thanks for the accommodations,” Obie’s voice echoes on the room, his low, monotone reading turned into a more solemn sound that it has any right to be, considering the dullness of the subject. “Lady Maryam hopes you’ll join her for dinner tonight.”

“And she will remain hoping.” Howard’s throat scratches as he speaks. He eyes the wine next to the throne, his mouth feeling dry as he sees the little drops of water dripping from the bottle. He can’t drink yet, though – there have been whispers, of course there have been, and he will not feed them so easily. He motions for Obadiah to go on, forcing himself to look away from the bottle.

His eyes dart around the large room. There’s a scribe boy next to Obadiah, taking note of his every word with unfailing precision. Jarvis is next to him, his posture very still and eyes focused, expressionless, exerting his wonderful ability of hiding in plain sight.

As Obadiah starts listing the latest shipments coming from the port, Howard feels the beginning of a headache prickling up his neck. It’s an unbearably hot evening, and even the servant girl fanning him does little to combat the heat. The velvet cushion of the throne sticks to his skin uncomfortably.

“Is that all, then?” He asks, barely bothering to hide his eagerness, as soon as Obadiah pauses to breathe.

There’s a noise on his side, something akin to a cough or laughter. Howard’s neck snaps as he turns.

Truth be told, he had forgotten Tony was there. One could hardly fault him for that – Tony was never present in meetings about their economic affairs, even though, according to his duty as the lord’s son, he should be.

Then again, Tony wouldn’t recognize his duty if it slapped him in the face with a horse’s carcass.

“Apologies,” Howard says, his voice cutting as his eyes land on the chair to his right. To his frank surprise, Tony is dressed properly, in a blue waistcoat with golden embroidery and blue breeches. His posture is slightly slouched, but, as he schools his features in a serious expression and looks back at Howard with curiosity, he almost looks just as a young man on his position should. Almost. “Should I put on a jester’s hat for my next joke? Would that make it more amusing to you?”

Tony’s mouth quirks as if it had a life of its own - a notion Howard certainly wouldn’t dispute - but he ducks his head, eyes staring down at his lap.

“Forgive me,” he says, voice meek. “My… my immaturity gets the best of me at times, father.”

“Indeed it does,” Howard agrees. He’s astonished by the lack of an irreverent reply; Tony has never lost one opportunity to be snippy with him.

Perhaps he’s feeling ill, Howard thinks. The thought is not strong enough to be a concern, but it still makes him strangely uncomfortable. He grasps the goblet’s stem before raising it to his lips for another sip.

To hell with the whispers, he thinks. He can do as he wants.

When he lowers his glass, he realizes all the eyes are on him, waiting for permission to continue the conversation. He barely fights back the urge to sigh.

“Are we done?” He directs the question to Obadiah, turning away from Tony entirely.

“I’m afraid not yet, my lord,” Obadiah’s voice sounds compassionate, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes that leave no doubt this is the moment he’s been waiting for all night. “The rebels sent a raven to the city walls last night. Captain Rogers has requested an audience with you.”

The last words seem to suck all air out of the room. Howard straightens his posture, forgetting for a moment his discomfort with the throne’s cushion. “They have gotten all the weapons we sent them, have they not?”

“Yes, my Lord. The Captain said it was… a different matter.”

“And he specifically asked to speak to me,” Howard says, not a question.

Obadiah nods.

Howard clenches his jaw. “We cannot afford to spare any more soldiers.”

This isn’t entirely true – Howard could, he imagines, send a few more men to meet the Captain’s forces. But that would weaken their own defenses more than he’s comfortable with. He’s already playing a large risk, allying himself to the Captain’s cause.

Some would say it was a safe bet. Through the entire kingdom, there are villagers convinced of a certain victory, already singing songs of the one who came to free them from Zola’s tyranny. But for the longest time, Howard had dismissed this possibility: rebellions come and go, and it’s foolish for a nobleman to be concerned with the legends of the common folk. Even as tales of the Captain’s prowess in battle started reaching royal feasts, for the longest time the rebels were still perceived as a momentary threat; a thorn on the king’s side and nothing more. When word got around that the king had sent Pierce’s command to handle them, most of the lords - Howard included - had assumed that would be the end of the rebellion.

Everything changed when Pierce’s men were defeated. Suddenly, the tables had turned, and any lord worth his land was scraping for leverage to negotiate with the rebels.

Of course, the Starks were a crucial piece of support for the Captain to get, if he intended to govern the North. The whole continent knew of the quality of Stark iron and the weapons they could craft. It was, then, only a matter of time until they received a messenger to negotiate an alliance. The Captain had not been present, yet according to the messenger - a stunning and terrifying red-haired woman - he had wanted to be there, except it wasn’t safe for him to veer inside the city to reach the palace.

The negotiations went smoothly, and in no time, the Starks were officially allied with the rebels, just – as the rumors said - in time for the Captain to start planning his final assault against the king’s castle.

Howard didn’t mind being late to the party. He’d leave the alliance for after the king was overthrown if he could, but Gods know that would lower his negotiation power considerably. He was left with no choice.

He is not very happy about that. Mind you, he has no love for the king – the crazy, old bastard could jump off a cliff for all Howard cares – but Zola ruled the lands for decades. With him, it was easy to know where you stood. With the Captain…

Well. That remains to be seen.

“Did he, uh,” a voice cuts through the silence, and it sounds so hesitant that it’s with quite a shock Howard realizes it’s Tony’s. “Did he say when?”

“No, my lord,” Obadiah says. Howard barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. He spoils Tony too much, not nearly as much as Maria had, true, but... “Though I assume he must be waiting for a swift reply. We don’t know how long he can stay in the outskirts—"

“I will see him tomorrow,” Howard declares, half-distracted by the wine goblet and the way its gold reflects the lights of the chandelier. “Send word for him to meet me after dinner.”

“Of course,” Obadiah replies, with a slight bow. Tony, sitting on his chair, shifts a little.

“This should be interesting,” Howard states. The wine is a bit on the sweet side for him, he decides. His eyes dart to the door, already wondering—the last bottle the Romanoffs sent, had he finished it? And if not, where had it gone? Perhaps on the last cabinet of the kitchen, the one Happy kept locked at his request…

“Meeting the Captain can’t hurt,” Obadiah agrees, running his hand over his beard. “Perhaps we can gather information on his next assault.”

“He won’t say anything,” Tony counters. “Besides, it’s not as if you will be meeting for the first time.”

Howard frowns at that, though his eyes remain at the door.

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” Obadiah says, as if he’s talking to a child. “It’s dangerous for the Captain to veer into the city. We have negotiated through a messenger. He has never been here before.”

Howard glances at Tony’s reaction. Part of him feels curious, the other part is already at the kitchen, thinking about the Romanoff’s bottle.

“I know this,” Tony says, huffing a breath. “I’m talking about…” He trails off when he catches sight of Howard looking at him. “You know what I’m talking about. You know him.”

Howard raises an eyebrow in response.

“Do I?”

“Yes,” Tony replies, and Howard feels a tinge of annoyance at the indignation that fills his expression, as if Howard has insulted him deeply. “He used to live here, years ago, as a child. Don’t you remember?” He frowns as if the possibility honestly confuses him. “He tended the stables. How could you not remember?”

A moment of stunned silence follows his question.

“Oh, yes.” Howard grins and snaps his fingers. “Of course. How could I not remember a kid who once worked on the stables ages ago? I obviously have nothing better to think about.”

The scribe lets out a muffled laugh. Howard, with a rush of self-satisfaction, waits to see Tony’s cheeks flush with shame, but instead he only seems more indignant, hands closing into fists on his lap.

“Are you jesting?” He snaps. His eyes are wide, seeming bigger than ever. He got that from Maria – big, unbearably inquiring eyes. “He set your horse for you every morning for years. And you’re saying you couldn’t even be bothered to learn his name?”

Hot anger boils in Howard’s stomach. “You might enjoy mixing up with all sorts of people, Tony,” he spits, his voice dripping with disdain, leaving no doubt as to what class of mixing he’s referring to. “But I’m a busy man, and I can’t bring myself to learn the names of every poor bastard who makes sure the horses don’t eat themselves to death.”

The flush finally appears in Tony’s cheeks, but it’s not of shame, but anger.“He’s not—” His mouth shuts with an audible click and he stands abruptly. “I should go.” He turns on his heels as quickly as possible, walking in large strides towards the door.

Howards draws in a sharp breath. He concludes the meeting, too tired to entertain Obadiah’s speculation on the Captain’s intentions, and goes to his chambers.

As he passes the door to Tony’s room, he thinks he hears a noise. It’s late, but Tony keeps odd hours; his schedule outrageous due to his parties or the time he devotes to his own pet projects. Howard imagines this is what he must be doing now: wasting time crafting something they don’t need and have no use for, as opposed to doing something actually helpful, such as attempting to upgrade any of their catapult models.

Maria was the one who encouraged Tony to keep creating. Howard had warned her against it, had said Tony needed to focus less on being creative and more on being productive, but she hadn’t listened. She never listened.

For a moment, Howard wonders if he should knock. He and Tony don’t actually fight very often – they don’t spend nearly enough time together for that. Perhaps he could attempt to reach out, to ask what is he working on...

But the moment passes, and Howard’s head hurts, and he believes the Romanoffs’ bottle may be hidden behind the beans cupboard. So he keeps walking.

* * *

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, halfway through the blessed bottle, Howard does try to remember the stable boy Tony was talking about. He has a vague memory of an extremely sickly boy that the squires joked would probably get stomped by the horses while caring for them. He can’t remember his face, though, and he isn’t sure he ever learned his name.

The stable boy turned rebellious hero - it’s quite the fairy tale.

No wonder Tony flared up about it, Howard thinks as he swallows another glass. Tony was always obsessed with the knights’ tales, the ones Maria read to him before bed.

Maria, Howard thinks, her name echoing in his head like a single note from an old, sad melody. When he’s alone and his tongue tastes wine, it’s easier to remember her. He remembers her laugh and inquiring, curious eyes; remembers how she had sat on his lap on their wedding night, and how she’d recoil in bed years later whenever Howard slumped down to fall into a drunken slumber, very careful to not even risk touching him.

Maria didn’t enjoy fairy tales. She never did.  Howard imagines she only read them to Tony because it was something a mother should do, and she was determined to play the part to the letter, at the time, in a not so subtle attempt to disguise how poorly she fit that role.

When Maria left, on nights when Howard stumbled through the hallways to get to bed, his hand on the wall to steady himself, he heard sounds coming from Tony’s bedroom. Muffled, uneven sobs, impossible to mistake for noises that came from working.

Back then, they echoed numbly in Howard’s head, and he didn’t even consider knocking.

* * *

The next day, Howard barely sees Tony.

That’s not unusual – they spend most days in this manner, hardly ever crossing paths. Howard has his obligations, his duties. Tony… Howard doesn’t know what he does, and, to be honest, he prefers it this way.

In his rare free time, Howard retreats to an almost hidden room on the top of the southern tower, a place that he could call his workshop if he still had time to work. The servants aren’t allowed to come inside, so it remains exactly in the state as Howard left it in the last time he came up there. The floor is cluttered with rejected projects – unsharpened blades, broken launches, even something Howard vaguely remembers as an idea for an unusually shaped battering ram. A thick layer of dust covers all these unfinished objects like a blanket, keeping them safe in their inertia.

His worktable is in the corner of the room, next to the small forge. A faint smell of charcoal makes Howard’s nostrils itch. His stomach twists as he approaches the table and sees the pieces of parchment paper. His notes are illegible; the work of an overly excited drunk, and just looking at them makes Howard yearn for a glass of beer.

He hasn’t yet drunk today. Sometimes, he does this – spends hours on end without touching one drop of alcohol, proudly asking for water at lunch and taking momentary delight in the surprised expressions of the servants. It’s almost a joke; a game he plays with his own thirst, ignoring it as much as he can until it finds him in bed, inevitably, when he lays his head at his pillow and remembers the smell of Maria’s hair.

He takes a deep breath and sits down at the wooden stool, trying to make some sense of his notes. Heat prickles down his neck and he can feel sweat forming at his temples. He used to spend days here – now, he can barely stand a few minutes.

He forces himself to go through every page before he admits his defeat. Nothing there is salvageable. He hasn’t invented anything in years.

On his way outside, he thinks of Tony, wonders what is he doing. However, Howard knows he’s either warming the bed of a prostitute, or stuck in his chambers frantically working. Somehow, both options are equally infuriating.

* * *

He waits for the Captain with impatience.

Part of it is curiosity – regardless of what Tony says, he has no memory of this man’s face, and he has no idea what he could possibly want from him. Another part is just that he longs for the excuse to finally have a goblet of wine. By now, the sun has lowered, and his tongue feels dry, sticking to the roof of his mouth as he speaks.

“The Captain of the Howling Commandos,” Jarvis announces, as the door opens and a man steps inside. “Former Captain of Pierce’s guard, Sir Steven Rogers.”

The door of the throne room always makes a sound when it opens. It’s unnecessarily big and impossible to ignore, designed to make whoever enters through it seem as important as possible.

Captain Rogers doesn’t seem very impressed with it. He walks inside with slow steps, his posture straight. He is a tall, burly man, wearing dark garments that Howard suspects may be the only piece of clothing he has that hasn’t yet been tainted with blood of the king’s soldiers.

When he kneels, Howard studies him. His blonde hair glimmers in the faint lights of the candles. When he raises his head, blue eyes look up, firm and impossible to read. He’s surprisingly young.

“Lord Stark,” he says, and Howard gives him a nod and motions for him to stand up again. He complies a little too fast. “Thank you for meeting me tonight.”

“Captain,” Howard replies, intrigued. He had expected a hardened, grizzly warrior. Instead, the man in front of him looks like a painted image of a knight – the beautiful, almost angelical image dreamed up mostly by those who have never known a real battle. Howard half-expects him to inform him he has just defeated the dragon that kept the princess prisoner. “I understand you wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Rogers then presses his mouth in a thin line, and even from the throne, Howard can see how his jaw clenches.

“I want to start by thanking you for all the aid you have provided us,” he says, and there’s a rehearsed quality for every word. He himself doesn’t seem comfortable saying it, as if he’s only doing it because he must. “Without your generous contribution, we’d be doomed.”

Howard takes comfort in the fact that Rogers seems to be as displeased by having to perform this ass kissing as he is by receiving it. He nods, encouraging.

“What I’m about to ask you has no relation to our alliance,” Rogers continues, his voice a lot steadier now. “I come here only in behalf of myself, and what I’m about to ask, I ask as a man, not as a soldier.”

Howard feels as if he can see the anticipation growing in the room, almost as a cloud forming over them. The guards don’t bother hiding the shock in their expressions, and even Jarvis can’t fully disguise the curiosity, his eyebrows quirked.

Rogers takes one short breath before locking his eyes with Howard’s. His blue gaze is almost peaceful in its resoluteness, as if there’s an element of inevitability in what he’s about to say.

“I’m here to ask for your son’s hand.”

Howard blinks. For an insane moment, he thinks Rogers is joking, but the man would have to be a complete lunatic to make a joke such as this.

Then again, he would be just as mad if he was telling the truth.

The guards are less subtle in their surprise: they gasp without any ceremony, clearly foregoing norms of behavior in their shock. Jarvis’ eyes are as wide as plates.

Rogers doesn’t seem to register the effect of his words. Instead, he stares at Howard in silence. It dawns on Howard he probably thinks there’s nothing else to add.

“You… Excuse me,” Howard forces himself to say, a hint of annoyance slipping under his bewilderment. He feels as if he’s being mocked somehow. “Ask me for what?”

“Your son’s hand,” Roger replies matter-of-factly. “In marriage.”

His blunt tone makes the familiar tingle of anger climb up the back of Howard’s neck. “You wish to marry my son? Tony?”

Something that Howard can’t quite understand flashes in Rogers’ eyes. “As far as I’m aware, he is your only son, my Lord.”

Howard clenches his jaw. He searches for the next words to say, but his silence apparently works better, because after a few moments Rogers speaks again.

“I… I apologize. I don’t mean to be impertinent,” he says, tentative. “I realize this can come as a surprise, but I’m asking in good faith. I would never mock you or your family, Lord Stark.”

Howard’s hand clings to the throne’s arms, feeling the smooth wood against his palm. “Tony is meant to marry Sunset Bain,” he grunts.

Rogers stays in silence for a second, and then raises an inquiring eyebrow. “Is he promised to her?”

“…No,” Howard admits. “No, he isn’t. But it is what is expected of him. The Bains’ allegiance to this house has only grown more admirable as the years went by.”

_Also, it would place him in a position of power in the mountains. Which could be lucrative for us._

He may as well think aloud, because Rogers seems to fully understand what he means. “I could provide for him,” he says, a pleading note in his voice. Howard tries to detect a performance in his expression, but can’t. He desperately wishes for wine. “After—After we…”

“After you dethrone the king?” Howard asks. He means for it to sound mocking, disbelieving, but Rogers gaze never wavers, and he gives him a single nod in response.

“After it’s all over. Yes.”

“And what if you fail? What if I promise Tony will marry you, indisposing myself with the Bains, and then you face Zola and he delivers your head on my doorstep?”

“This,” Rogers says, solemn and certain as a priest asked about the Gods’ existences. “Will not happen.”

Howard leans forward and rests his chin on his hand. “And you expect me to just take your word for it?”

“I expect you to have faith,” Rogers replies. “As the villagers do. Zola’s reign of terror in this land won’t last much longer.”

“It’s easy for the villagers to have faith, Captain. They don’t have anything to lose.” Howard studies his face carefully, his mind wrapping itself around this development. “And assuming you’re right – you would climb on the throne ready to share it with someone else? With my son?”

A pause follows his question, but Howard can tell Rogers is not reflecting. Instead, he seems almost – appalled is too strong a word, but definitely shocked by Howard’s words.

“Anyone on a throne already shares it, my Lord, with the people they lead.” He takes a short breath. “But to answer your question directly: yes. Yes, I’d be ready to… share it with Tony.”

He says Tony unlike any other word he’s said until this point. A softness slips through every letter, a touch of wonder in both syllables. For one second, the name of Howard’s son sounds foreign to his own ears.

He looks away, focusing on the goblet. It’s always easier to focus on the goblet.

“And do you expect me to answer your request right now?”

Rogers seems surprised by the response, but then he shakes his head. “You can take as long as you need, lord Stark.”

The wine fills the goblet beautifully, it’s redness bringing life to the dull metal surrounding it. “Can I? I was under the impression it was difficult to you to go through the city.”

As he takes the drink to his lips, he can see, from the corner of his eye, the way Rogers’ nostrils widen as he takes a deep breath.

“Take all the time you want,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a pleasantry. It sounds like a challenge.

“Oh, trust me,” Howard says, after taking a long sip. “I will.”

* * *

 

The next morning, Tony finds him in the middle of breakfast. His hair is messy and he’s still in his sleeping attire.

Howard’s mouth curls in disapproval, but Tony doesn’t seem to notice, marching to the table and staring at him with wide, surprised eyes. He’s out of control, asking about a dozen of different questions at once. Just his voice is enough to make Howard’s headache start pounding again.

“What did you say to him?” He asks finally, panting.

Howard chews on a piece of fruit. “I told him to wait.”

“Wait? He can’t wait, that’s not—he can’t keep coming into the city, it’s not safe.” Tony pauses, nervousness emanating from him in waves. “How long are you planning to make him wait?”

“I’m not sure.” Howard follows his bite with a sip of milk. It tastes incredibly bland. “There’s a lot to consider.”

Tony stays quiet for a second. Howard almost sighs in frustration. Tony enjoys putting on the face of a bigger man, but there’s little about him that isn’t tainted by youthful foolishness. He’s entirely too transparent and yet believes he isn’t – a combination that invites danger.

They stay in silence for a moment, Howard chewing on his food. At one point, Tony opens his mouth to speak, but Howard cuts him off, standing up and deciding he’s done handling Tony today.

* * *

 

Howard’s response to Tony wasn’t exactly a lie, even if it wasn’t exactly truth, either. There is a lot to consider. There is a difference between providing the rebels with a few shipments of weapons and soldiers, and promising his son to one of them. The first one ensures their favor if their revolution succeeds; the second one effectively makes the Starks part of their rebellion, as it ensures Tony will be by Rogers’ side, when he takes the throne.

The first one can be forgiven, in case the rebels are suppressed, especially with Zola needing allies in the aftermath of an insurrection. The second one can’t.

Of course, that’s only if the rebels lose. If they win – and Howard knows there’s a good chance they will, otherwise he wouldn’t have given them anything - the Starks would be on the throne.

Now, their current position is way too comfortable for Howard to bother with schemes of ascension. But that doesn’t mean he’d turn it down, if it was offered to him on a silver platter, as it seems to be the case.

But opportunities such as this, Howard knows, are rarely offered without caveats. And the main thing that’s unsettling him, right now, is that, although he can see how accepting Rogers’ offer could benefit them, he has a hard time figuring out what’s in it for Rogers himself.

Obadiah thinks it’s about the weapons, but Obie is short-sighted, always has been. There’s no reason for the rebels to try to get more weapons from them by adding a wedding to their bargain. They already have enough without needing such a huge compromise.

Howard spends the day with the thought in the back of his head, regardless of what he’s doing. When dinner time arrives, Jarvis informs him, as he sets the table, that he has heard whispers the Captain of the rebels is undercover inside the city, at a cheap hotel, by himself. Howard nearly chokes on his drink.

“Send him a message,” he orders Jarvis. “Tell him to meet me for dinner.”

“Have you made a decision, my Lord?”

“Not yet,” Howard replies. He’s a little taken aback; Jarvis rarely asks for explanations. “There are questions I need to ask first.”

A muscle clenches in Jarvis’ cheek, but he says nothing. Howard raises an eyebrow.

“Anything you’d like to share with me, Edwin?”

“No, sir,” Jarvis says, impenetrable.

“Really? You don’t have any thoughts about this?”

“I’m not the one who should have thoughts about this, sir,” Jarvis says, rather pointedly.

Howard, who wouldn’t stand for such a reply from any other servant, laughs and shakes his head. Jarvis has always had too much of a soft spot for Tony. He spoils him terribly, always has done so.

He learned that from Maria. She spoiled Tony a lot, when she thought that would awaken some feeling of motherhood inside her. She would give him all the sweets and toys he asked, even as her gaze grew bitter at her newfound duties.

Perhaps, Howard wonders, she already knew, then, that she would leave. Perhaps she was trying to compensate for leaving way before she gathered the courage to actually do it.

She didn’t just leave Tony, though, Howard thinks. She left everything.

Howard clenches his jaw. Thoughts of Maria don’t usually hit him during the day – they have the decency to show up at night, to ensure he doesn’t get any peaceful sleep. Thinking of Maria doesn’t agree with the rays of sunlight shining through the window. Those are thoughts that belong to the darkness of empty corridors; to the bitterness of pure whiskey hitting his throat.

Speaking of which…

“Get me a bottle, won’t you, Jarvis?”

For a second, Jarvis seems as though he’s about to protest, to remind Howard of his many meetings today. But then he doesn’t say anything, only gives a small bow and heads towards the kitchen.

Howard feels strangely annoyed. Of course, he realizes, he only speaks up when Tony is concerned.

He ruminates on what Jarvis said. Only now does it dawn on him that he still doesn’t know what Tony thinks of Rogers’ proposal. However, he muses, tapping his leg against the table nervously as he waits, that’s not high on the list of concerns. Gods know Tony isn’t selective about his partners – Howard doubts there’s anything about Rogers that Tony would consider a deal breaker of any sort.

The clock on the wall announces lunchtime is nearly over. Howard pinches the bridge of his nose. He has a meeting with Odin’s ambassador after this, and then there’s the discussion of their exports with Obie, and then, of course, there’s Rogers…

Jarvis arrives with the wine bottle, freezing and shining with small drops of sweat. Howard swallows at the sight. Just one drink, he thinks. Just one drink and it’ll all be good.

* * *

 

“I must say,” Rogers starts, sitting on the opposite end of the large dinner table. “This is quite a change from the last time we’ve spoken.”

“Talking is usually easier when no one is on their knees,” Howard states. He’s feeling a little dizzy. His goblet is filled with water now, but Howard can only see the bottle right next to it, the one Jarvis had replaced after he finished the first one he had brought.

Rogers smiles. “I agree.” He reaches forward and takes his own goblet, filled with wine, and takes to his lips in a modest sip. Howard vaguely thinks he’s only doing it out of politeness. “Have you reached a decision about my request?”

Direct, straight to the point. Howard can respect that.

“I’m afraid not yet, Captain,” he says, taking a bite of his beef. It’s juicy and succulent, a fine distraction from the bottle that he can’t bring himself to ignore. “I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Ask away.”

“Why do you want to marry Tony?”

Rogers’ reaction is unexpected. Howard had imagined he’d either answer it immediately or be scared by his bluntness.

“Why?” He repeats instead, as if he doesn’t understand the question. Then, to Howard’s surprise, a flush climbs up on his cheeks, his mouth curling in a smile that seems to be carefully controlled in order to not be too bright. “I imagine that for the same reasons anyone marries, sir.”

“Gold?” Howard asks, his fingers tapping the table. “Power? Climbing to the throne, you’d hardly need him for either of those things.”

“Love, my lord,” Rogers’s smile fades, his brow furrowing slightly. “I meant love.”

Howard laughs. He can’t help it – it’s an honest, full-blown laugh, the type he can’t remember the last time he gave. “Love? You come inside my castle to jest with me, Captain?”

“No, sir,” Rogers says, no trace of his smile left on his expression. “I wouldn’t ever jest about such a thing.”

“Right. You are _in love_ with my son. How _touching_.” Howard shakes his head, smiling, and decides: no reason to hold back anymore. He takes the bottle and fills his goblet, taking one long, delicious sip. “You know, if it wasn’t impossible, I’d think you had gotten him pregnant. That’s usually where most of those sudden feelings of love come from.”

“You’re quite the cynic,” Rogers says, his words a touch colder. “Sir.”

“I’ve been told.” Howard makes a gesture towards Rogers’ glass. “Come on, don’t let a man drink alone.”

Rogers complies, though there’s a muscle clenching in his jaw that tells Howard he’d rather not to. “There wasn’t anything sudden about it,” he murmurs before drinking, so low Howard almost doesn’t hear.

“Oh. A childhood infatuation, then? Tony tells me you used to work in our stables.” Howard throws the information on the table casually, as if he and Tony have been discussing Rogers in detail since his arrival. The man’s expression is unreadable, though, so Howard can’t tell if he buys it.

“I did, yes,” he says, carefully avoiding the question, Howard notices. His mouth curls in a lopsided grin. “Hope Gingerbread is doing all right.”

“She mostly rests these days, I hear,” Howard says, even though he doesn’t really remember if Gingerbread is the brown horse or the one with the white spot on its forehead.

Rogers doesn’t say anything, only watches him in silence. Howard finishes his drink and pours himself another one.

“Regardless of what childish fantasies you have been feeding, Captain, I’m sure you have heard Tony has a very extensive—and, uh, let’s say varied—list of conquests.” He lets the sweet taste of the wine flood his mouth, slipping it under his tongue before he swallows. “Does that not concern you?”

“No.” Rogers’ response is immediate. “It doesn’t concern me in the slightest.”

“Right.” Howard nods, slowly, as he feels the pleasant burn of the liquid down his throat. “You must also know that my son has no manners. He holds very little regard for the rules of royal etiquette.”

Rogers tilts his head and his eyes sparkle with barely hidden amusement. “I’m aware.”

It’s Howard’s turn to clench his jaw. Annoyance sparks in his belly, though he still doesn’t fully understand why. Surely, whatever ulterior motive he was hoping to find doesn’t exist, so he should leave Rogers be.

Still. _Love_. It’s just… so ridiculous, so juvenile. It’s absurd. It should be hilarious, but instead, Howard finds himself growing angry.

He swallows another glass to stop himself from saying something reckless. Rogers watches him in silence.

“You enjoy drinking,” he says, finally, and the judgement on his eyes is so clear, so sharp, that Howard is momentarily too taken aback by the sheer insolence of it to even be offended.

“Trust me, Captain,” Howard replies, nonchalant. “If you marry my son, you’ll be drinking me off the table in a month.”

This time, not only does Rogers’ jaw clench, but his hand curls in a fist. “With all due respect, sir,” he says through gritted teeth. “I don’t think this will ever happen.”

Howard doesn’t answer. Instead, he drinks, under Rogers’ watchful gaze.

“Perhaps I should leave,” Rogers says, after a few moments.

Howard waves him off with a flippant gesture. Rogers stands up.

“Thank you for having me tonight,” he says, before giving a quick, mechanic bow. Then his eyes find Howard’s, blue and cold and yet somehow blazing, as if he can see things Howard doesn’t want him too. “I trust that you will be able to reach the best decision for your son, my lord.”

Howard just stares after him, speechless. For a moment, the wine tastes bitter in his mouth.

* * *

 

He runs into Tony hours later, when he’s walking back to his room. He meets him in the hallway and they almost bump into each other, Howard losing balance at the startle.

Tony’s hand snaps forward to hold his arm, keeping him steady. “What happened? Why did it take you so long?” He asks, frantic, and it occurs to Howard he was clearly waiting to see the result of the meeting. Then, disgust crosses his face. “You’re drunk.”

Howard pulls his arm out of his hold. The anger is enough to sober him up a little, enough for him to stand up straight and stare down at Tony. “Get out of my way,” he grunts, walking past him.

Tony follows him, because Tony never knows when to leave him alone. “Were you drinking alone?”

Howard stops, turning towards him, feeling his face heat in fury. “No,” he says, keeping his voice calm. “No, me and the Captain finished a bottle together. He left a few moments ago, on his way to courtesan’s chamber, I believe.”

Tony’s face twists as if Howard has punched him. “You’re lying.” He holds Howard’s stare. “Stop lying and tell me. How did it go? What did he say?”

“You really wish to know? Fine,” Howard says, distantly hearing his voice grow louder. “He dreams of walking you through the flowery fields of the mountains while a bard plays the harp.”

Tony rolls his eyes. He looks like a twelve-year-old, as bratty and as annoying. “I should probably let you go to sleep, before you vomit all over me.”

“From what I’ve heard, the servants are quite used to cleaning your vomit,” Howard shakes even as he struggles to properly enunciate every word. “So I suppose they’ve got enough practice.”

They’re close now, face to face. For a young man, Tony is a little on the short side. It’s a trait he inherited from Howard himself – it’s one of the few things Howard can’t fault him for being.

“I don’t know what stories you have been hearing, father,” Tony sneers. Howard’s head feels hot, rage burning through the alcohol in his system. He leans forward, threatening, and everything in the world would be easier if Tony retreated, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. “But I’m not the one who wanders the corridors at night like a tavern’s ghost.”

“Oh, indeed – you prefer to wander the brothels, isn’t that right? I’m sure the whores enjoy your chatter, provided they’re well-paid.”

“At least the whores want me,” Tony’s face seems to shake for a moment, but he doesn’t back down an inch, and his voice is cutting, sharp. “At least they’re not terrified at the thought of bedding me, as they are at the mere mention of you. You must know, right? That they whisper among themselves of how old and decrepit you have gotten, and how they fear you will one day solicit their company - though, most of them aren’t sure, father: are you even capable of performing the job? Since mother—”

Howard’s hand is a flash in the air between them; a quick but strong sound, not unlike a whip, bounces off the walls. Howard barely feels the moment of contact between his hand and Tony’s face, only seeing it when Tony’s head snaps back.

Howard draws in a deep breath. It’s been years, since the last time Tony drove him to do something like this.

He lowers his arm, watching redness begin to bloom on Tony’s cheek. Tony’s face is still turned away, on the position Howard’s slap left it, as if he can’t bear to turn to look at him.

“Mind your tone when speaking to me,” Howard says, but the words come out hurried. He thinks he can glimpse tears on the corners of Tony’s eyes. This both infuriates him and makes him wish to turn around and leave.

So he does just that.

* * *

 

Rogers comes again, next morning.

Except Howard doesn’t see him; Rogers neither sees him, or requests an audience. Instead, as Jarvis tells, Rogers approached the castle’s door and asked if he’s made his decision.

Howard, in a reflex, tells Jarvis to send him away. He comes back the next day, though, with the same question.

“He says he wants to know what you’ve decided, sir,” Jarvis says, twisting his hands. “He says… He says ‘go away’ is not an answer.” He pauses for a moment, then adds: “He says he will continue to come until you answer him.”

Howard’s feels his eyebrows hit his hairline. “Doesn’t this man have a war to fight?” he demands. “How much longer can he keep going through the city without alerting the king’s guards?”

There’s a sound similar to the ghost of a muffled laughter next to him. Howard turns to find Tony, scribbling a piece of parchment on his lap.

“He’s quite stubborn,” he says. It’s the first thing he’s said to Howard since the slap. It’s also – Howard frowns as he notices – a rare moment where his voice sounds lower, a far cry from his usual mouthy rhythm. A ghost of a smile even appears on his lips. Howard hadn’t stopped to notice, but it is perhaps the first time he’s smiled since that day, as well.

Howard shifts in his seat, uncomfortable by the sight as if it’s somehow inappropriate. He moves the goblet in his hand and watches the wine move in steady, circular motions.

* * *

 

Two nights later, at dinner, he turns towards Tony and asks: “Do you want to marry him?”

Tony’s eyes widen, and his mouth falls open, and Howard can see the barely chewed dinner. To his credit, Tony chews before answering and lowers his fork to the table carefully. Howard wishes he displayed these manners all the time.

After Tony swallows, though, he remains in silence. His big eyes watch Howard as they would study a new catapult, but Howard notices there’s a slight flush on his ears. For a moment, Tony seems reflexive, and Howard catches the spark of something that feels foreign in his eyes – hope.

It’s gone as soon as it come, though, and, as Tony wipes his mouth with a cloth, he looks away, his fingers picking a loose thread in the tablecloth.

“Would it matter if I didn’t?”

Howard bites back a curse. Not even asking a question can be simple. “By the Gods, Tony,” he growls, genuine frustration slipping in his words. “You can never make anything easier, can you?”

He half-expects Tony to snap back, but instead he just keeps wrapping the thread around his index finger and pulling so more of it comes out. When he speaks, his voice is distant, as if he’s speaking from miles away.

“Yeah,” he says. “I suppose I can’t.”

* * *

 

The night before he makes his decision, Howard dreams of Maria.

He rarely dreams of her anymore. To be honest, he rarely remembers any of his dreams.

But this one, it’s not—it’s not quite a dream, it’s a memory. It’s a memory clear as crystal, clear as the ideas that used to spring into his head endlessly every single day.

It’s a memory of Maria’s laugh – she had quite the inconvenient laugh, too loud for a lady, and although she was usually clever enough to conceal it, it tended to break free after a few drinks. Her laugh mixed with alcohol in her breath, and it tasted like the type of foolish, reckless happiness only the drunks have.

She used to laugh when Howard carried her to bed, way before Tony even dreamed of being born, and in bed she was all raspy whispers and sighs, muffled moans and words stretched out by her slurry voice. She’d whisper of love, then, and Howard, a man who had never believed in such a thing without the influence of alcohol, often whispered back.

* * *

 

When Howard opens the door to his chambers,Tony jumps, startled.

“What the hell?” He asks.

Howard doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he stalks to the corner of the room, where there is a chair, and sits.

Tony, in the bed, sits up as well, though he doesn’t seem any less alarmed than a moment before. He takes sharp breaths. He is clearly trying to evaluate the situation; to detect what is the scenario in order to decide which posture to adopt. In a way, Howard recognizes, it’s almost admiring, how fast he takes it all in.

“I made a decision,” Howard informs him.

At this, Tony stands up, taking a few steps towards him. His clothing is rumpled, as though he moved often in his sleep. “You… What?”

Howard draws in a deep breath. “You will marry Captain Rogers.” His eyes snap towards Tony’s face. “The ceremony will be performed after the final battle, of course, but you are now promised to each other, and you are free to accompany him in his expedition, provided, of course, that you keep a distance from the battlefield and remain… proper.”

Tony blinks. Howard waits.

Tony doesn’t smile.

“Why?” He asks instead, his brow furrowing.

“It was the logical decision. The Captain is a good suitor – once he wins, you’ll function as his consort, a position higher than anything you’d ever get from Sunset Bane. Having you on the land’s government will help us get business beyond the seas.” Howard makes a flipping gesture. “And you both want this to happen. It’s the only possible choice, in fact.”

Tony’s expression doesn’t change.

“Why are you doing this?” He asks, after a moment.

“Doing what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely. “Giving me… giving me what I want.” His face flushes slightly at the last words, and there’s a slight glimmer in his eyes. “Why?”

Howard swallows. He clenches his jaw as he looks away.

“You want this,” he says, slowly. “I’m giving it to you. Why question it?”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Because… because I need to know,” Tony pleads, his tone confused. “I—I can never please you. And yet… You’re giving me this.” He looks younger than ever, as he stands there, in his sleeping attire, wide-eyed and disarmed. Even then, he attempts to build some armor, crossing his arms. “You don’t care about what I want. So, why?”

“Fine,” Howard acquises, his head already beginning to ache. He places a hand on his temple, rests his elbow on the chair’s arm. “I’m giving you this, because—because deep down, I know how it goes. And you know, too.”

Tony is very still. Howard thinks his face grows a little pale.

“What?” he stammers. For a moment, Howard feels honestly sorry for him.

“You’re like me, Tony. I’m not any more pleased about this than you are.” He taps the fingers of his free hand on the chair’s arm. “We have our differences, but at the end of the day, we’re the same.” Tired of waiting, he pulls the flask out of his vest, opens it and takes a large sip.

“Why are you saying this?”

“Because you already know,” Howard tells him. The burn on his throat is pleasant enough to keep him talking. “The words under our banner – you’ve read them. ‘Made of iron’. That’s what Stark men – you and me – are, Tony.” Another sip. “And iron, you see, it’s quite useful, for many things. It’s strong and it makes great weapons.”

“Are you drunk?” Tony asks, but it’s with a weak sneer.

“Not yet,” Howard replies. He’d get angry at Tony’s insolence, but it’s too transparent an attempt to derail the conversation to truly get to him. “As I was saying. Iron – one of the finest metals men can find to fight a war with. But it’s not particularly rare or hard to replace. It gets rusty.”

He turns his head to Tony now, gaze locking onto his.

“We’re not made for fairy tales. We’re made for war. And men like us, we can marry, we can have children, but at the end of the day, we’re alone.” He watches as Tony deflates, his mouth partially open, eyes shining suspiciously as Howard gets to where they both know he was aiming all along. “He will leave, Tony. He may promise he won’t, and say all the love sonnets in the world. It may take time, but one day, he will leave, just as Maria did.”

Tony shakes. Even from his seat, Howard can see that he does. “He… He isn’t…”

“I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. For all your flaws, you’re not dumb, my son. You know: he may promise forever, and perhaps he even means it, but at the end, he will, too, be wrong, and he, too, shall leave.” Howard raises the flask, as a toast, even if Tony doesn’t reciprocate, his mouth pressed in a very thin line. “And when he does it, you will be king. You will rule all these lands.”

There’s a long stretch of silence before Tony replies, his voice small: “I don’t want to rule anything.”

“Neither did I,” Howard states, matter-of-factly. “But that’s reality. Of course, you don’t need to believe me.” He gestures towards the door. “You can leave with him today, and forget anything your decrepit father ever said. But I don’t think you will, because, deep down, you know. He may care for you and protect you and swear loyalty by you – but, in the end, they all leave. You and I know this better than anyone.”

Tony doesn’t say anything. Instead, he walks back to the bed and lets himself sit, staring at his hands.

“I’ve sent for him already,” Howard says, and Tony’s head snaps up at him, but now his gaze is far from hopeful, instead filled with the numbness and slight despair of someone who just opened their eyes to find nothing but pure darkness. “He should probably be getting the news right now.”

Tony wraps his arms around himself. Although he’s staring ahead, Howard knows he isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s looking at his future, at the truth, at the fate of Stark men.

“That is my gift to you,” Howard continues. “Even if it takes years and I’m not here anymore to see it, when he leaves, when nothing you have is enough to make him stay, you will remember this talk, and you will be ready.”

Tony doesn’t say anything. His lower lip shakes.

“I should be going now,” Howard declares, raising himself from the chair. On the doorstep, he stops and turns to look at Tony one last time as he speaks: “I’m telling you the truth, Tony. You should be grateful.”

Tony doesn’t respond.

* * *

 

Rogers arrives a few hours later. When Howard enters the throne room to see him, he barely recognizes the man he saw a few nights ago. Rogers’ face is flushed and there’s a barely contained smile on his lips. The man looks downright _giddy_.

Howard offers him wine, but of course he refuses. He then starts thanking Howard, but cuts himself short when Tony arrives.

Howard finishes pouring wine onto his goblet when he turns to look at Tony. He is dressed properly in a dark red garment, his hair brushed back in a way Howard is certain was Jarvis’ doing.

Howard stares at him, but Tony doesn’t seem to notice. He crosses the room and stands next to the throne, but he barely acknowledges Howard as he does so, his entire attention on Rogers. His eyes seem even wider than usual, as if his gaze wants to swallow the man whole. He joins his hands in front of his body, clutching his fingers.

“Hello,” Rogers says, breathless. Howard has no doubt the man completely forgot his presence the second Tony stepped inside the room. For a moment, he feels almost as though he’s intruding, because Rogers’ focus on Tony is almost inappropriate. Howard knows better than to be fooled by it, though.

 _An infatuation, certainly_ , he thinks. But infatuations are fleeting. A million years ago, Maria had been infatuated with him.

“Hello,” Tony replies. He sounds equally breathless, but his hands clutch tighter and his expression reveals nothing. Rogers’ smile falters a bit, and as Tony watches him, there’s a caution in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

 _You’re welcome_ , Howard thinks, and drowns out his goblet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments and kudos warm my heart. You can also reblog the fic [here](http://elcorhamletlive.tumblr.com/post/184023529945/a-myth-to-many-nanasekei-marvel-cinematic).


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